


Beheaded Morality

by madwanderer



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:59:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madwanderer/pseuds/madwanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>| Jefferson/Alice AU (with hints of Swan Queen later on, and even Cora/Dark One if you squint and stand on your head).<br/>A flourishing kingdom in a world centuries before our own, with the slave trade running strong and freely, where diseases and falsities of such ran rampant. A child of nobility but not quite royalty is stolen away as it often happens then, and sold into the free trade for many years before she stumbles upon a prince who finds himself quite taken with her-- and what a hard thing to do when you've find yourself stripped of your own decency, morals, humanity, sanity on every accord. Oh, the things you can sell if you only try hard enough. Torn from her own world of darkened, superficial abuse-- what does she have in store for herself, thrown into a castle of only the most disturbing psychological horrors and mind games, and in the midst of a very murder ploy against the king himself? What secrets might she uncover in a life so far outside of the one she knew, that she would say her previous life of torture was simpler than this? |</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beheaded Morality

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madlittlegrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madlittlegrace/gifts).



Her knees hit stone floor hard, and for a moment she heard their protests above the stabbing pain—angry cries at her, and she fretted. Would they continue to bend for her, or would she walk like those stiff soldiers that cracked walnuts in their teeth? Oh, she didn’t much fancy that idea, she was having enough troubles as it was in regards to walking—her thighs ached; her insides would cramp and the blisters of her feet were bleeding through old scars and freshly broken blisters. Though she’d already received a beating for daring to spill blood on the king’s floor, and one of the women beside her was ordered to clean off her markings before anyone noticed—and Alice had last seen her on her hands and knees, licking the blood with her tongue, a hand over her stomach as though fighting off nausea, which wasn’t too horrid an idea. If she were to be ill, you see, she would need to clean that just the same.  


The room was luxurious—dark, though, and for that she frowned. The few plants she could see were wilted—roses, white, crying and sobbing as mothers tried to hold up famished buds, heavy velvet curtains of blacks and violets choking the plants of their sun life. The furniture matched the drapery—thick couches, overstuffed, deep blues that resembled the midnight sky with lace trimmings of white and greys, and her master (as he had her call him) was seated upon one of those couches, his fat form spilled out over down pillows and silk lacings.  


Oh, how she _ached._

She longed to feel those pillows beneath her—it’d been so long since she felt silk, she hadn’t the faintest idea anymore quite what it felt like, simply that it was soft and she yearned for it. Yearned to feel such smooth material beneath her pained knees, yearned for the soft touch of those blankets and pillows, for something other than grubby, rough hands or hard, stone floors beneath delicate and bruised skin.

But such was her fate, something she brought entirely on herself. If she simply hadn’t of wandered—hadn’t of left the safety of her mother’s hand so long ago, she never would have stumbled into one of the most obvious of traps, never would have dealt with the pain and confusion of the slave trade.  
A rarity, they’d called her—at first, beauty, such pale skin, golden hair and bright blue eyes—she would have sold well, if it weren’t for her clear madness. She’d ruined each prospective buyer— she’d jabbered too much to herself as they sought out a slave, torn herself away from the upper class to be sold for merely looks, now dragged to the near bottoms—from sold maiden to a desperate whore, now being sold as rent to a prince, bought on looks and looks alone.

Looks, though, even that she seemed to falter in. Her hair had long since lost its shine, and her bones nearly protruded from her skin, far, far too thin to be wanted, to be deemed healthy. Her back was riddled with scars of lashings and whippings that had torn that eager glee from her eyes; her lips swollen and teeth marks plain and clear on them from the many times she’d been told not to scream, lest they whip her more. The only selling point she had left was her virtue—and if she were to lose that, she was certain she would be left on the streets, or put to death.  
Pale hair fell in front of her eyes and as she ducked her head, she couldn’t be sure which outcome sounded more appealing.

Right now was an embarrassment, she knew that much. She spoke of her own accord, muttered whispers to the roses nearby, sympathy for their plights but apologising profusely for her inability to simply open the curtains and save their starving families. She muttered- - she spoke, and they asked her why she was here.

“To be laughed at.” She supposed; in the drawing room of the king’s castle, on display for his rather fanciful son? She’d yet to meet him, but she supposed it must be the same. The roses hummed in their own means of sympathy, that is, the ones who had the time to think. She could hear the pained moans of the older roses, of the blossoms that threatened to fall off at any moment, and she frowned-- her bottom lip trembled, and it took every bit of strength in her not to cry for them, for the heinous murder going on before her very eyes.

“Alice!” A hiss drew her from her revelries, and her muttering came to a cease, looking up with wet eyes at the woman just ahead of her, just to her side. She felt a pinch to her arm and took a deep breath, though the woman’s eyes were kind. She was dark—a contrast to Alice, with hair that curled and sprung from her head in ways Alice could only envy, thick eyebrows and dark, hooded eyes. She was more fit—she had been there longer, and rather than starve, she’d been made to work in the fields, had grown muscle and stolen often of the plentiful harvest, resulting in the toned physique of her body now. She was almost like a man—Alice loved to envision her as a beautiful black knight, atop a horse worthy of her, sword at her side and wearing shining metal, over the rags of cotton she wore now. Cotton that was white and stained, that clung limply to the woman’s sides and hid her beautiful curves and muscles.  
A shame, really.

“We all pay when you do that.” Her accent was thick, and that was the final thing she said before turning around, ignoring the harsh look their fat master from the couches gave her. Her name was Faizah, though Alice would pronounce it differently each time she said it—she just adored the string of letters atop her tongue!  
“Sorry.” A quiet whisper, and Faizah nodded, her hair bouncing atop her head before she looked up again, waiting still. The prince was late—or so the pale girl supposed, with the way her master spoke with some of the guards, who she could see were scrunching up their noses at him.  
It must have been his breath—his teeth were rotted, though he pretended otherwise, some were holed like the pretty cheeses she saw sometimes when she was allowed out as parties, to help with decorations or—occasionally, if it was deemed fitting, a part of the decorations herself. With teeth like that he always reeked, and with his habitual consumption of fish—well, rotting fish weren’t the most pleasant of scents. Moments would pass, and Alice would lose focus of her master, biting her lip to keep from speaking aloud as the roses wailed and the pillows chattered to her, a few whining and groaning about the fish man in his too-tight vest and slipping pants that sat atop them. Disgusting, they hissed at her, won’t you do something?

Often she would shake her head and look down—look away, sigh at the frustrated groaning of her knees, for there wasn’t a thing she could do, truly! No shackles held her down that anyone could see—but the welts along her back were shackles enough, and the nearly tattered attire she wore upon her (the same blue dress she wore each time she was presented to company, growing more and more tattered, and she must be three sizes too large for it by now, with how it was just an inch above her knees and how the seams were splitting beneath her arms, how her bodice was straining with what little chest she withheld.) felt like lead rather than the thin cotton it was, an anvil draped over her.  
She sighed. A taste of copper greeted her and she knew she must have bit through her lip. Her tongue darted out quickly to lap and remove the spilling blood, but she worried it wouldn’t heal in time to hide the mark. A bite, an injury always lowered selling price, even deterred the sale entirely. Not, of course, that she did expect to be bought; but it wasn’t wrong of her to expect punishment from ‘risking a sale’ like that, how _dare_ she. The swelling, perhaps, would bode well—but if her teeth marks were made more apparent from this, she could expect a proper lashing, or some humiliating event tossed her way. To march nude; or another branding? There was already a calligraphic ‘P’ on the edge of her hip, a mark of the house she belonged to.  
 _Pachis._

The iron they had branded her with had whispered that that was the name of the land Satan resided in; that it bore the flames of hell in its name, the same torture and torment reflected in that home and even in that branding alone that did occur in a world far beneath theirs.

But not underland, she’d argued, and the iron nodded in its odd way, in accordance with the hand holding it. _No, far beneath that,_ it had explained before it was pressed against her flesh, and from then Alice’s cries drowned out anything more it had to say on the matter.

_Oh, dear, I do wish I hadn’t cried so much. Then, perhaps, I might know what it had intended to say._

Lost in her thoughts; startlingly blue eyes hidden by darkened lids were entirely unaware to a procession leading in. The kind—with eyes grey and very vivid, alive, pupils dilated in amusement and excitement, dressed to the very toes in his expensive and well-fitting garments, stuffed quite like a peacock—so vibrant in his rich colors that it was almost sickening to the eye. Men came in with him; hardened gazes over looked the room, sneering at the fat whore-master, always so disdainful of the prince’s games. Though he was grinning, in some delirious state of madness that pulled his mouth so taut his lips may split, if the cleft in his chin wasn’t indication enough already. He was handsome; a strong jaw, a straight nose and broad shoulders, dark hair and eyes, perfect symmetry, but the manic light in his eyes tainted that otherly beauty to a keen eye. His gazed raked over the women kneeled in line; two rows of women, finer women up front (Faizah, a few of the women taken from the French isles,) and the more worn women in the back (Alice, along with a woman who, by the scars on her stomach, had once been a mother—as well as a few other women from Faizah’s homeland, all dark skinned and muscular, though one seemed to have a drooping eye.) as they were only there as a pretense of variety, to make the women ahead of them look more beautiful. They were used as contrasts; never intended to be sold, to amplify beauty by their own lack of it, or so their master _said_. He knew this game well; and he knew the women in the back were nothing to look at. So his gaze over them was fleeting, he cared only for the front row of women, the astonishing mix of cultures and races, such beautiful women on their knees before him, dressed in little more than rags.

His steps were careful; and Alice was yet to even look up, mumbling like the madwoman she was at the stone tile as he stepped around, carefully scrutinizing his selection. White, gloved hands folded behind his back and he scoffed at one particular woman, someone taken from the very ports of Alice’s own land, a girl she had met at least once in her childhood. She had brown, thick and curled hair that flowed to her midback—she was tanned, but her tan bore the same lines a farmer’s did, the clear imprint of a circular collared shirt still held a faint paleness against her tan on her throat; above the bodice of her dress. Her arms were muscular—and she bore a well amount of weight, as she had not been within servitude long and even carried a healthy flush to her cheeks still. Her eyes were green and not yet glossy with endless torment; her lips full, her back still unmarred, scabbed wounds not being broken enough quite yet to scar.  
Alice envied her, and pitied her for the beauty she was soon to lose if she was not sold off in due time.

“Dull.” He spoke, a low tone, and he could have sworn he heard a muffled sob from the woman, though he could care less for what woes she may hold. One of the guards looked pitiful—perhaps the woman envisioned a better life once bought, but many of the servicemen and women alike could assure her that a life lived amongst rabid tigers with sore teeth was kinder than a life beneath this prince’s thumb. He moved past—flitted from a girl with auburn hair that had accordingly come from an island near Alice’s own, one of the only other few girls who spoke her own tongue fluently, not the marred tongue the rest had been forced to learn. Next—a woman of skin that resembled the hue of drying sand, and the prince’s features twitched in disgust.  


And of course, after that, was Faizah. He stilled in front of her—and Faizah almost looked hopeful, cinnamon eyes wide and looking back up at him, lips parted—so close, so close she could almost feel it, a life in a palace had to bear more meaning than life with that fish loving bastard, but that hope died as soon as she felt the heavy weight of the prince’s rings on her cheek.

A resounding crack echoed the room, and Faizah’s head whipped around with the force but she did not falter. For she was strong—and when Alice looked up, she felt her heart break for her yet felt almost proud, in a way. Faizah was someone to admire, someone that held her ground during her lashings, who did not scream and sob the way Alice did. Faizah knew strength and courage, and was the most likely of all of them to find true freedom.  
Faizah, though, had just braved being slapped so hard Alice had heard it, had kept her head high and even dared to spit blood from a bitten cheek in front of the prince.  
(Who, the guards noticed with a relieved sigh, did not see the blood stained upon his floor.)

“Black as the filth pigs roll in.” That grin was long lost, and anger—no, something far more hysterical than that, far beyond a sensible comprehension, a rage unheard of for such trivial things lit his eyes up, grey irises growing clouded, stormy, pupils shrunken now as he stared at Faizah, and Alice could swear she could taste the bitter sting of the woman’s anger ever from behind her. Though she found it so odd—she had yet to look up at the prince, refusing to face an angry man, but she was still lost as to how this Prince—Jonathon? _Lord, what was his name?_ could compare Faizah’s skin to a pig’s filth? To Alice, it was the rich, bountiful dirt in the deepest parts of the earth—beautiful in its darkness, something motherly to its hue, the beauty of nature so apparent in her earthen tone and the honey-silk flecks of light in her eyes, contrasting with a far darker, more cinnamon mingled color, like the earth nearest the surface, as though Faizah herself held a whole world unto her.

Nothing like filth. Her anger was bit back quickly, though, as she turned to the floor once more, knowing it was never worth it to involve oneself in a fight. It was torment enough on the woman, the whore, the servant involved, before anyone else even dared step in.

Faizah’s punishment would be hers alone, and Alice couldn’t even bring herself to feel guilty for her silence on the matter—this happened too often for Alice to get a streak of bravery now, let alone in front of an apparently very violent prince.  
Within moments—within moments, a scent of fish reached her nose and Faizah was lifted harshly (her dressed groaned and Alice offered condolences hidden in the flurry of noise,) along with every other colored woman in the room, lest they offend Prince _Jeremy_ (No, that didn’t sound right either.) again. Women of such rich skin tones were ushered out—Faizah by her hair, stooped over to accommodate for her master’s height and only now did Alice finally look up, if only to offer her friend a short wave. A simple gesture, but meaningful none the less—as it was risky to move without permission like such, but with how angry both the prince and her master had sounded, Alice couldn’t be sure if she was ever to see Faizah again.  


A pity, really. Alice had no time to be sad, though. Tears were disgusting, tears were two lashings. Tears were to be saved for evening, to be saved for when there was no more Faizah to quickly and hurriedly take over the chores Alice herself could no long do, arms trembling and legs shaking with the effort of lifting hay bales. Tears, were to be saved if Faizah wasn’t to be found again. Tears were something she prayed she would not need. She looked away from the doorway; empty, now, Faizah and women of that same coloring had been ushered to the front of the palace; presumably back to the caravan they had all been crammed within on their long journey here. Which, it seems, left Alice and perhaps four other girls of a lighter tone, only two of which she could properly name.  
Names were given carefully, here. You did not want to be well known—you did not want to draw attention, not by any means. Keep your head down and your feet swift, you may avoid a beating, or even death. A cruel philosophy, but something that had been beaten into all of them.

“And yet still,” She heard that voice again, and looked up at the prince, who was speaking amicably to another man dressed in silken garbs (And a girdle, by the looks of it, that was chatting animatedly with the blouse strapped within it over whether or not it felt it preferred the scent of lavender or honeysuckle) “even with only clean women left, I feel like I’ve contracted several diseases by simply looking at them.” The man beside him laughed, though it was false and Alice could feel it, an unease in her stomach over the simplest of lies.

“My father hires the cheapest of men, I swear by it. A fisherman with a pack of penny-ridden whores; reeking of unmentionable diseases, sodden and pus-filled sexes apparent without my need to even lift their dresses.” And he sounds disappointed, now, and Alice felt herself wither, somewhat, always hating the mention of what they’d made her out to be. Not that she’d been sold, yet—or even rented, but what he described was easily her future.

“Sick, disgusting—that damned man in his cheap vest, with the gut that spills from between his buttons—a master should never smell like his women, but he reeks of old salmon!” Now the prince cackles and Alice can’t help but smile all the same—despite his insult, her follies may well be as fleeting as his and so his jab at her master dragged a smile to her lips, how she hated that man and his fishy tendencies. She watches him, bright eyes fixed on his turned head, the graceful curve of his back and toned legs beneath leather pants. He was dark; an allure to that, to the vibrancy of his scarves and vest, the thick jewels adorning his fingers and neck, the crown nestled in a head of hair that resembled the skin on the underside of Faizah’s hands. He was interesting, she decided, interesting but cruel, and dressed to suit the part of the comical villains she had seen actors play out on the streets, the rare few times she was permitted outside, if only to accompany a mistress as she sought out a new dress or hat.

She watched; and she fiddled with her hands in her lap, ignoring the growing voices of the roses (silenced when she had focused upon Faizah, but with Faizah gone and Alice’s focus lost the voices came back with nearly a vengeance, shrill cries reaching her ears in muted tones, but muted only for now.) and the recommencing chatting of the pillows and silks. Prince Jehovah (No, that can’t be right, that was a name used in scripture—and very virtuous, might she add! So it simply could not be his name.) spoke for moments longer before turning, eyeing the women again but this time as though they were little more than roaches beneath him, waving his hand to sweep them away. He would find business elsewhere.

Alice watched his hand and panicked, as she was certain the other girls had. If no one was bought they were all to be punished, and so Alice had taken her time in standing up—fiddling with the hem of her dress, as her fellow girls did the same, acting as though that hand had yet to be seen, delaying getting up until one of their own hired service men came over and grabbed at their elbows. Delay it, perhaps he’d change his mind yet, Alice thought, face now hidden in her hair again, Genevieve was such a beautiful woman, even if she bore the signs of a pregnancy, and her thoughts were muddled and voices raised, and suddenly each voice around her mingled in with the voices of objects and the floor, everything was loud and cramped and she simply waited to be led out, waited for someone to drag her out the door as she was certain she must have started mumbling again in the safety of her distraction, but—  


It seemed, her world spun to a halt when soft, silk-laden fingers had found their way beneath her chin. The voices faltered—she could hear an audible gasp but she wasn’t quite sure if it came from Genevieve or herself, or an imagined voice really, it was no such an impossible idea—but the gasp sounded and she daren’t look up, daren’t see who touched her with such gentleness it must be a farce.  
“They took an angel from the very heavens…” A voice had trailed off just above her, and now she wished she had been listening as those fingers grew more insistent, forcing her chin up, forcing her to look up into the same brilliant grey eyes the prince had sported but—simply, it could not be him! He wouldn’t look at one such as herself, let alone touch her face like she was worthy of affection from his highness!

But there was no mistaking it, and she felt herself tremble under such a touch, now shying away again of her own fear from his earlier stroke of violence, though she couldn’t stop her cowardice. She would have, of course—pulling away from customers had earned her many a pained night, and this, she assumed, would be no different. Though the roses around her that could talk whispered of affection in love from this man she wouldn’t hear a word of it, wouldn’t dare believe that this was a affection.

A farce, a game from the mad man who grinned like a Cheshire cat (of her own creation, of course!) that would taunt her with a promise of affection and then dislocate her jaw, as was the only kindness she knew.

“And forced her to kneel among a batch of ugly whores, to hide this beauty away, so unloved as men do!” He seemed angry, and Alice assumed it was at her fear. He looked back- hand waving again, and she could see the women around her being displaced the same as Faizah and the rest were, though they all stole glances back at Alice. Alice, the lunatic, Alice, who had mumbled to herself the entire time, left alone in the hands of what seemed a dangerous prince.

One could only speculate what was to happen, given his words.

“They don’t appreciate true beauty, little dove.” He hummed, and when his hand cupped his cheeks she found it easier to keep still, what with the reassurances from the roses and how utterly she seemed to _crave_ that touch, now. A game or not, a man had not held her so lovingly since the days when her legs were no longer than the stem of a particularly tall daisy, when her father would lift her and kiss her and play with her cheeks, soft and careful. Women, perhaps. Faizah’s touches were brief but assuring, and Genevieve touched her much like her mother would, but such times had stopped when her cheeks thinned and her nose straightened. Women didn’t need coddling, no. She was grown and didn’t need the brief touches they had shared with her in her use, for touch was a gift in that home, and one Alice slowly grew to no longer deserve, with the punishments she had earned them all in her fits of lunacy. 

 

“ _Please._ ” Had she spoken? She shut her lips tightly, but the man kneeling before her simply smiled, brought both hands to her face, thumbs rubbing delicate circles into her cheeks and she couldn’t seem to avoid the forlorn sigh that left her at such affection, relaxing entirely into his grip. If it was a game, then she was playing it well—and if it was a game, it was senseless not to enjoy what brief delight and relief these touches brought her, how blissfully mindless she had become, eyes wide and half-lidded as she stared back up at him. His smile was soft; genuine, she thought, but she may be biased now, even if it lacked the mania it had held only moment’s ago. His smile only grew and he patted her cheek—metal making contact with her skin from his rings but for once the meta l was not bruising, only a slight touch, and he stood up with such a deepened look that Alice was left nearly dizzy, wondering what would happen.  
She couldn’t let herself hope; but yet she did, and suddenly she hoped with every part of her that she was to be left here with this prince with the kind hands (how easily she forgot the slap Faizah had received, like a dog forgets a master starves it when offered a scrap of bone!) and eyes that reflected every color she knew and several she didn’t, and that still somehow held no color at all to them, to be left in his care, to perhaps finally feel gentleness after so long without.  


She watched him, and he looked down to her, seeming as though he was going to walk away before offering her his hand, which she couldn’t think to take. He urged her onwards, silk crinkling in his fingers as they bended to beckon her, her own shaking hands grabbing his and she was pulled up with such strength she feared she would fly through the roof of the palace.  
She laughed—giddy when she was brought up, and took hold of his arm with her free hand to keep from stumbling, feeling another seam in her dress rip but caring so little—how warm he was, against her frozen hands! After days spent travelling in a brisk autumn air, her skin still felt cold, but he was so very warm and laden in silks and cottons and velvets and every sort of fabric that she wanted to burrow into him like a rabbit would its own warren; to hide and revel in that warmth that for the moment, was all she cared to focus on. No need for the cries of roses or nonsense from the pillows—in her arms was hope and warmth, so foreign to her but now so very _real_.

“We’ll take her.” He spoke to the same man dressed like a peacock, Alice noted, a man with silver-blonde hair that nodded when Jefferson spoke,

“Yes, my Prince.”

“With no payment. She can be retribution for the insult they paid me—and for the blood on my floor from that vile demon of a woman. Ensure that fisherman that he’s to leave without a fight, as he’s simply lucky to leave with his _life_ , as I’m so gracious to ignore such blatant insult.” The man she held onto spoke, and Alice ignored the cruelty of his tone, for she refused to ruin this moment—she was being bought. She was being bought by a man she declared handsome, a man that had yet any reason to hit her.  
She was, in her mind, _free_. The grass, of course, was forever bluer… redder? No, some color, but certainly a more ‘er’ color than its previous, on the otherside. Was that not how the saying went, in its sincerity?

“Yes, your highness.” The man spoke, and with a bow he was off, escorted by two of the guards clad in that wonderful metal she had pictured Faizah in. (Would Faizah be in that metal, now, then? If they could not sell her, Alice decided, it only made sense that she was to become the beautiful knight Alice saw her to be.)  
And he smiled, and she felt his arm shift but he did not pull away, only turning to look at her.

“And what is your name, dove?” He spoke, and she found it funny his interest in naming beings after animals, though her smile was small. She tried to speak—and instead she coughed, coughed so hard she felt spittle on her chin and saw it on the side of his vest. She immediately lost that smile, her eyes wide—frenzied, panicked, how _dare_ she smudge such a beautiful thing! But his smile was not lost, and a thumb brushed over her chin and she sighed yet again in relief, that same glove wiping his vest only briefly, it wasn’t much of a smudge.  


“Alice.” She finally managed, her voice hoarse but still as airy as it had once been, only ruined now by that earlier coughing fit.

“Fitting. A beautiful name for a misguided angel, a lost dove—“ He cooed, and he turned to face her fully, gently taking his arm out of hers, if only to replace her hold with her hands in his own. His were so much larger than her own and she could hear her fingers laughing about being swallowed up, to which she offered a ‘shh!’ that the prince only cocked his head at, but didn’t question, as it was accompanied by such a delighted laugh that he couldn’t find it in him to be aggravated, “—and my name is Jefferson. I’m glad to have found you, _Alice._ ”


End file.
